Corner of a Cornfield

To sit and touch
a moment of tranquillity,
a quiet corner, part of a wider plan,
drowsing air heavy with peace
and wave upon wave
of blades of maize
washing the canvas fresh
in cool clear green.

To step inside
the frame and lie outstretched
and suck a straw and dream
of buttered cobs and bowls of flakes
awash with cream, and hear
the rustle of a harvest mouse
and watch a waterfall
of tumbling sunlight gleam.

And wish away
the day when darkening shadows
scar the meadows, when progress
wipes the canvas clean
and tarmaced roads
reach for the sun, and seeds
sleep deep in concrete beds
and no birds sing.